


Lost Souls

by daylighthour



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Again, Angst, Arthur - Freeform, Betrayal, Feasts, Festival, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, If you want - Freeform, Merlin - Freeform, Morgana - Freeform, Morgana is gone, Pagan, Prince Arthur, Regent - Freeform, Sadness, Samhain, Uther is sick, could be slash, just strong friendship, otherwise, season 4, seasons as a plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 18:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylighthour/pseuds/daylighthour
Summary: In Celtic pagan tradition, Samhain is the night in which the boundary between this world and the spirit world is thinnest. Thus, many would try to communicate with loved ones who had died. But what if the ones you love are not dead, but are still just as distant from you? Arthur struggles with this, and Merlin tries to help.





	Lost Souls

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I've assumed the Merlin universe to follow a pagan calendar, as in my other fic, 'Equinox'. I rather like using seasons as a setting, maybe I'll keep that up.

Arthur eases the door to his father’s chambers shut behind him, careful not to startle the wispy figure seated at the open window. The figure does not move, does not give any hint of having noticed his son’s entrance, and it’s strange the contradiction this causes to pull at Arthur’s heart. He walks as a whisper and speaks as a breath around his father, but he wishes, just once, that he could be powerful enough to once again draw his father’s attention.

  
“Father,” Arthur says as he draws near, placing a hand atop the shoulder that was once broad and muscled for battle but now that has dwindled like a spindle fiber. His father does not move, does not look anywhere but straight ahead with clouds over his eyes.

  
With a sigh Arthur goes to the table, where Guinevere has left a tankard of spiced wine. In this room he could forget that all of Camelot is alight with festival; all that reaches his ears is a wayward tune from the minstrels below or an odd shout or laugh. Here, any excitement is muffled and felt distantly, as through thickly layered blankets.

  
He gives his father a goblet of the wine, wrapping the king’s white, frail fingers around it and not letting go until he is sure that it will not fall through his father’s grasp. Such has happened before, and he does not care for the way the wine stains his father’s tunic dark red like blood.

  
“It’s far too cold in here,” Arthur says, shivering as a breeze slips beneath his shirt. “I will shut the window for you. Can’t have you coming down with a chill.”

  
“No.”

  
Uther’s voice is soft and raspy, but it carries the ghost of that man who once made Arthur tremble. As such, Arthur stops, the shutters to the window half closed. He rests his palm atop the cool glass and looks at his father.

  
Uther’s eyes are on him, cloudy and confused, but _looking straight at him_. “There is something going on down below, in Camelot. It is a special night. What is it?”

  
“Samhain, father,” Arthur says, swallowing a lump in his throat. “In another hour the feast will begin.”

  
Perhaps he says this out of a childish and fleeting hope that these words will cause his father to spring forth, to say that he could never miss the feast and festival. But nothing happens but another gust of wind, another moment when Uther recedes further into whatever shadows cloud his mind and consume his body.

  
Arthur sits with him for another half an hour, telling his father of training the knights and of the preparations of the feast, stopping only when the lump in his throat grows too large. When he leaves, he kisses his father softly on the forehead, the way Uther had never done for him.

  
“Leave the window open, Arthur,” Uther whispers.

  
Swallowing heavily, Arthur nods. “Yes, Father.”

  
****************

  
“And finally, your belt, sire,” Merlin says, handing over the special belt Arthur wears to those increasingly rare ceremonies in which he does not wear his mail. It is fine leather with swirling designs carved along its length, a gift from Uther when Arthur had turned eighteen. “Just try not to make me have to poke any more holes in it, yeah? It’s almost too nice for that.”

  
Arthur waves it away, stepping back a bit should Merlin try to put it on anyway. “Not that one, Merlin. Not tonight.”

  
“Why not?” Merlin says, the belt dangling from his palm like a limp fish. His face falls. “I was only joking about adding the holes.”

  
Arthur shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just get me my usual belt.”

  
Merlin stares long and hard at Arthur before he does as he’s told, fumbling through the discarded pile of Arthur’s clothes from training that morning for the belt. He loops it around his waist, never looking at Merlin, just staring out the window. The sun has long sinice set but the village bonfires that ward off the return of evil spirits have also prevented darkness from setting in. The light, distorted by the window’s glass, dances across Arthur’s face.

  
He speaks with his back still turned. His voice is low and somber, and it’s hard to believe it comes from the same voice that calls Merlin an idiot. “Do you have anyone you’re honoring tonight, Merlin?”

  
For a moment, Merlin thinks to lie, but he can’t bring himself to do it. “My father,” Merlin says softly, praying that Arthur will just accept it and never have to know about the dragonlord who dwelled in the caves.

  
“Of course,” Arthur says, and Merlin relaxes minutely. “If you like, we shall drink to his honor.”

  
Merlin nods, waiting until the tears are blinked back from his eyes before speaking again, his voice hollow and creaking. “And to your mother.”

  
Back still turned, Arthur nods tersely, hardly more than a rigid tensing of the shoulders. Then, taking Merlin by surprise, he laughs. The sound is humorless, more like the echo of a footstep in a long abandoned corridor than any human utterance.

  
“It’s strange.”

  
“What is, sire?” Merlin wishes Arthur would face him, but as such all he can do is try to read the lines of his body, the hunch of his shoulders beneath his ceremonial cloak.

  
“That there is no holiday to try to talk to the living ones you’ve lost. I think I need that most of all.”

  
The words are so quiet that Merlin could pretend that they were never spoken, and doubtless this is what Arthur wants, but Merlin knows this isn’t what he _needs_. He goes to Arthur and places a hand upon his shoulder, guiding him around to face him with gentle pressure.

  
“It’s foolish,” Arthur says, and there is self-loathing in the grit of his teeth. He shakes his head, ruffles his hair, does anything and everything so that, while his body does face Merlin, he doesn’t have to look his servant in the eye. “I was so hopeful today, Merlin. Do you know why?”

  
Merlin just shakes his head.

  
“Because my father looked at me. For the first time in weeks! How pathetic is that?” he spits out, and Merlin knows he’s not referring to the king. Then, his eyes, gleaming with tears, seek out Merlin’s and they find him, like a child looking for reassurance in the night.

  
“Arthur,” Merlin says, “that’s far from pathetic. I know you miss him.”

  
“But he’s not gone!” Arthur all but yells, but Merlin is not afraid, for he knows the anger is not for him but rather something far broader. “How can I miss someone who is sitting right in front of me?”

  
“Believe me,” Merlin says, “it’s possible. You miss him for the man he once was.”

  
But Arthur looks to the window again, leaning his forehead against the glass and going on as though Merlin hadn’t spoken at all.

  
“And Morgana, too. She’s gone but… but not really. I can’t find a way to reach her again either.”

  
Slumped against the windowpane, the Samhain light again flits its way across Arthur’s face, but this time Merlin can see the lines of hurt weighing heavy upon his prince. Arthur’s eyes flick back and forth, following some animal or villager down below, but Merlin is not so stupid to fail to notice the tears in them as well.

  
So Merlin goes to him, wraps an arm around the prince in something like half-a-hug or in strict support. “I’m so sorry, Arthur,” he whispers. “But you’ll always have me. I’ll never leave your side. I promise.”

  
For a moment there is silence, and Merlin expects Arthur to quip something like, “ _Well that’s a poor substitute_.” But instead, his mouth curls into a smile, genuine and warm, and he reaches one arm around Merlin’s back to give Merlin’s hair a loving ruffle. His eyes are once again locked on Merlin’s, and he reads the thanks within their depths.

  
“Come on, then,” Arthur says at last, releasing Merlin with a shove. “If I’m not mistaken, we have a banquet to attend.”

  
“And what if I said you were mistaken?” Merlin grumbles, rubbing at his shoulder.

  
“Then I’d throw you in the stocks,” Arthur says cheerily, then stops, his face growing serious. “Merlin, where do you think you’re going looking like that?”

  
For a moment, Merlin just stares at him blankly, until realization washes over him, dragging out a groan from his lips. “No, Arthur.”

  
“Yes, Merlin.” Arthur claps his hands together, his eyes shining with glee. “And to think I’d almost forgotten! Go on and fetch it, I know you hid it somewhere in here after the last time you wore it.”

  
And so, dragging his feet like a horse through mud, Merlin goes to the corner behind the bed curtains where he had left his feathered royal serving outfit in a crumpled heap, fully intending to magic it away somehow but regretfully not having done so. But all regret vanishes once he gets the costume on, and Arthur laughs as he hasn’t done in ages. The sound is warm as sunlight and sweet as birdsong, and Merlin would wear feathers on his head for the rest of his life if it meant being able to listen to it.


End file.
